She wasn’t going to get mad. She promised herself that. There was a plane leaving for Washington at midnight. She figured she could just make it.
Walter Foley stepped forward. “As long as we’ve got you here . . .” He smiled amiably. “You ever hear about this Site Y during your travels in the East? It may be connected with a program called ‘Das Unternehmen.’ Any of your Watermark subjects ever mention an Unternehmen?”
Susan found her gaze drifting toward the door. Any minute now she’d make her break. Just let one of these guys get in her way.
“Jog my memory,” she said. “Tell me what the hell’s going on.”
Meaningful looks were zipping back and forth between Walter Foley and her quiet friend with the cheek muscles. They were discussing her, she realized. They had reached some crucial point in the conversation; they were deciding between themselves whether to bring her in the rest of the way or put her back on a plane for Stony Brook, New York.
Susan found this vastly amusing—here, these three spooks from one of the more disreputable branches of Naval Intelligence practically kidnap her at gunpoint off a transport plane bound for home. Only they aren’t sure whether they trust her enough to hear their whole story.
“Excuse us,” Foley said. He pulled Charley Shrieve off into the far corner of the room.
“Sure,” she said. She caught Charley Shrieve looking back at her, as if checking her temperature. Susan just smiled. “Take your time.”
She found herself flipping her hair in irritation. Just keep your mouth shut, she told herself. Smile sweetly and you’ll be out of here. Whatever they cooked up for her, she figured they could call her up at Stony Brook to let her in on their decision.
Foley and Charley Shrieve didn’t even notice she was leaving. It was the kid, Bogen, who caught her arm.
“You don’t want to go out there,” he told her.
“I’m just going out for a cigarette.” She was planning to walk to that abandoned biergarten on the corner and wait for any green uniform in a jeep to take her out of this.
“You never know who might be waiting.” He had this smile, somewhere between winsome and sly, and desperate.
“You never know who might be waiting,” she told him, and tugged her arm back.
“Hey, come on,” he said, and then, “All right. I’m sorry about the Emerald Eyes joke.”
“The what?”
For the record, Susan’s eyes were not green, but black-blue, and a bit crossed—just enough to give her this air of dreamy surprise. She wasn’t sure why men were always mentioning her green eyes. She figured it was one of those burdens God gave red-haired girls to keep them humble.
“Ohh, that,” she said. “I’d forgotten all about that.”
But Bogen had done his job. Foley and Shrieve had finished deciding her future. They were ready to share their decision, and here she was just like she’d been waiting, breathlessly.
“We’d like you to look at one more thing,” Shrieve said.
“You’re sure you won’t compromise security?” She couldn’t help herself. She was mad.
Shrieve ducked his eyes. He had to stop himself from apologizing. “We’ve each got our job,” he said.
He led her out onto a landing on the far side of the entryway. From here, they overlooked a vast warehouse. Cracks seamed the bare concrete floor. In the corners, litter, patches of dirty ice.
(Susan frowned—Ice? But she let it go. Any sign of curiosity, she knew she was doomed.)
There was no handrail. Charley took her hand as they descended the stairs.
He seemed just the slightest bit uncertain about her. Maybe it was because he had no rank on her; maybe it was because they were close to the same age. Whatever, Shrieve was not so presumptuous as Walter Foley, which was bad—Susan could have said no to Walter Foley.
“We’ve seen this four times in the last two weeks,” he said. “A warehouse full of trucks and gasoline, or building materials, or winter bivouac, or, occasionally, things we can’t figure out. We keep an eye on the place a day or so, go back inside . . .” Shrieve held up his hand, indicating the emptiness. “Everything’s vanished.”
“What was in here?”
“Two hundred tons of lead and concrete. And, if you believe my guy Hartmann—six tons of mercury.”
Susan looked a little closer at her escort. Shrieve was worried; she could see it in his eyes. She wondered what, besides girls, could worry a guy like Charley Shrieve.
“You think they’re building some sort of, uhm, Gadget?” No one ever used the word bomb.
“Analysis is not my department,” he said. A good, stiff brush-off—she could appreciate that.